


Free Will Condemns

by Stephanielikes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, WIP, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephanielikes/pseuds/Stephanielikes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an example of how the destruction of predestination damned a woman's soul to Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Will Condemns

**Author's Note:**

> This is being written for the spnhiatuscreations.tumblr.com challenge week 15 prompt: Heaven, Purgatory, or Hell. I underestimated the depth of the story I planned to tell, and as I wish to do both my idea, and the challenge justice, please accept this work in progress. Unless I am struck dead, this story will only be WIP for a few more days, as I continue to sacrifice my sleep and sanity to the beast.

                Cold November rain beat hard against the fresh laid wooden shingles. A young midwife paced in front of the fire halting every few steps to check the progress of the water set to boil. A shriek of labour pierced through the closed chamber and drowned a distant clap of thunder. On the street, a cloaked figure hurried after the splashing footbeats of a young boy.

                Wrenched from the boy’s small hand by a violent gust of wind, the thick door banged against the wall. The lid fell from the midwife’s hand. She nearly burned herself on the handle.

                “Anne!” She exclaimed as she rushed forward to assist her colleague in removing her cloak.

                “Fetch your father.” The one named Anne instructed the dripping boy. The door was shut, and the child off into the dreary night again before she continued, “What news, Jane?”

                “She went early. The infant is positioned well, but doesn’t descend.”

                “Is there no help for this?” Anne gestured as a wail shook the air.

                “She broke the wooden bit, and won’t take whiskey.”

                “Wrap leather around another bit.” The elder midwife ordered.

                After removing her gloves, she walked briskly to the only other door in the house. She entered the room without knocking. Anne frowned. Only a single woman attended the ailing mother.

                “Where are the others?”

                “Away to tend their families, and care for the mistress’ younger children.”

                Anne looked down her hooked nose at the woman who’d answered. She did not know her name or family, but a knot twisted her stomach in recognition. Anne’s mouth hardened, and a crease clouded her brow as memory caught up to instinct.

                The Dyer birth. Anne hadn’t seen the woman before or since that unfortunate incident, neither in church nor at more routine reckonings. Now, near a month later, she appeared again, and the similarities between the two instances could not be ignored. The hair on Anne’s neck rose, and she made the decision to send this ill-omened woman away.

                “Go,” contrary to the force she put into it, her voice came out weak, “bring the reverend, and seek a wet nurse.”

                “You think a wet nurse, too?” The woman asked in a concerned tone, but a cruel glint lit up her eyes.

                “I think to be prepared.”

                “Very well.” With that the woman swept from the room, and the house.

                “Mary, bite on this.” Jane placed a leather wrapped block of wood between the mother’s teeth.

                Anne had bore fifteen of her own children, and attended the births of countless others. The blood soaked linens surrounding the birthing chair left her with no illusions to what must be Mary’s fate. She took her place on the stool at the mother’s feet, and readied to deliver the child.

                “You must push with all your life. Your baby depends on it.”

 

                Shortly after eight in the evening, a small infant slid into the world to her mother’s shuddering scream. No other woman had returned in time to assist; the two midwives appeared as wane as the mother. The elder looked at the babe lying in her hands as pale and still as death. Anne cut the umbilical cord, and moved closer to the warmth of the brazier. Jane held back to attend to Mary but, also, afraid of what she might see.

                The infant twitched her face towards the heat. Anne blinked. Had her own trembling played a trick? A tiny clenched fist lifted. The girl inhaled a wheezing breath.

                “She lived.” Anne gasped.

                “Praise be.” Jane approached.

                Anne scooped mucous from inside the infant’s mouth. Her breaths came without wheezing, but her vigour didn’t improve.

                “I’ll make Mary more comfortable.” Jane said softly. Anne nodded, preparing the silent newborn to be swaddled.

                Jane roused Mary, and, by God’s grace, got her from the chair to the bed. Mary struggled to sit up. She beckoned to Anne with shaking, outstretched arms.

                “My daughter.” She begged.

                Anne could not find it in her to deny the dying woman’s wish. She laid the bundled baby in its mother’s arms. The weak breaths grew more infrequent. Only the reverend would be needed tonight.

                Mary looked upon her newborn. Two stillborn girls, and her precious golden-locked Daniel went before. A large tear splashed her daughter’s forehead, and the girl crinkled her button nose. Mary pulled at the loosened lace of her stay, and withdrew her milk heavy breast.

                “She came too soon to suckle.” Anne stated. Nursing would only succeed in smothering the infant.

                Mary held her child near her offered nipple. She looked between the two women who had seen her through. They would protect her family. They would forgive her, even if God would not.

                “Leave us.”

                Jane gasped in her attempt to prevent a sob.

                Anne stared solemnly down at the grief stricken mother. The alternative was to let the infant succumb to starvation, infection, and winter. She lifted Mary’s face by her chin, and looked her in the eyes. She kissed the tear stained cheeks, “Go in peace.”

                Jane and Anne left the chamber, shutting the door firmly. They sat near the fire, quietly awaiting the men that had been sent for.

 

                John Greenwood listened to the eldest Abbott child read verses. His mug of beer sat untouched in front of him. Ominous wind howled outside. He prayed for Mary. He prayed for his unborn child. He prayed that, if both could not survive, the Lord let Mary be spared. He prayed for forgiveness, and to clarify that he would prefer both a healthy wife, and baby.

                A weak, but insistent knock rattled the door. Samuel rose to answer the caller. John looked up at a child’s cough.

                “William? You’re soaked! Get by the fire.” Samuel stepped aside to let the boy in.

                William shook his head. He stumbled in his rush to get to his father. John caught him by the elbow, and steadied William on his feet.

                “Miss – Miss -“ William stuttered.

                “Breathe deep, and speak clearly.” John comforted his gasping son.

                “Mistress Hutchinson - sends - you.” William managed between pants.

                Cold spread through John’s being.

                Samuel placed his hand on William’s head, “Go.”

                John nodded in thanks, running out without his overcoat. His heart beat against his ribs more intensely than the rain beat his face. Mud splashed his stockings, and water seeped through his boots. John ignored all, and increased his pace.

                Smoke rose lazily from his chimney as it did on any given day. He pictured Mary sewing in front of the fire, looking up at him scandalized over his haste. He slowed a few steps before colliding with the front door. Inside, he was greeted by two stone faced women. They both stood.

                Holding his hand up to stop the words forming on their tongues, before they could tear his heart out, John walked straight for the chamber. His eyes focused solely on the door, and his mind filled with the sorrow that it must reveal. His shaking hand reached for the handle. He held it there for a moment, steadied his breath, and pushed the door open.

                Lit by the glow of the brazier, Mary’s lustrous hair gleamed. Free from coif and pins, sweat matted it to her face. Her lips were ghastly pale, but her cheeks were as rosy as the day he’d first seen her, some twenty years ago. Bright brown eyes looked up from the infant sucking lusting at her breast and met his.

                “John?”

                He laughed and held the wall for support. Fool of a man, unworthy, he’d doubted God’s plan. The birth went hard, that was clear, but Mistress Hutchinson was a skilled midwife. Mistress Hawkins was already nearly her equal. Mary hadn’t just been in good hands, she’d been in the best.

                Against propriety, he hugged Mistress Hutchinson as he laughed, “The Lord holds a special place for you!” He let got Mistress Hutchinson to swing Mistress Hawkins in his arms. “For you both!”

                “Mary?” Mistress Hutchinson hesitated, looking in at her patient.

                “How can I thank you, Anne?” The warmth in Mary’s voice nearly burst John’s heart for he felt it too. “She took to the nipple well.”

                Mistress Hawkins laughed, “The Lord is good.”

                “His will be done.” Mistress Hutchinson added dourly.

 

                Jane Hawkins carried the squirming newborn through the midday chill to the church. John received his daughter at the font, and presented her to Reverend Mather to be baptised in the name of the Lord. Cold water poured over wispy black strands of hair; the infant kicked fiercely, but made no noise, nor had she in all her six days of life. John Greenwood named his daughter Silence.

 

                John worried more with each passing month that his daughter didn’t vocalize at all. He hired a doctor who tested Silence’s hearing, and reflexes, and deemed her as healthy a babe as ever he’d seen, but could offer no reason or cure for her dumbness. Reverend Mather’s urged him to leave it in God’s hands, that she would speak if He willed it. John occasionally pinched Silence.

                While her husband obsessed over their child’s deficiency, Mary quietly compared her daughter’s development to other infants, and to what she recalled from her sons. In general, Silence compared favourably. She would likely walk before all of them.

                Mary tried to keep this in mind when the other women came to visit, but the pity she saw in their faces overwhelmed her. Mary sent Francis and William to market rather than go herself. She made excuses to turn away callers, and made no social visits of her own. She kept to her home and church.

               

                Around the time Silence was six months old, Mary found she’d alienated most of her friend’s and so had to go to the shops herself, with her daughter in arm, for linen. Among the new stores that had opened that spring, one clothier had already gained the reputation of consistent quality, and fair dealing.

                Mary braved the crowd, and entered the shop.

                “Mary Greenwood!” A shrill, girlish voice called through the crowd.

                “Mistress Ball.” Mary said with a cordial smile.

                The woman pushed through to be next to her.

                “This must be Silence!”

                Mary nodded.

                “I heard you’d had a daughter finely! You must be so happy.”

                “Quite, thank you.” She refrained from asking what else Mistress Ball had heard about her daughter.

                Silence grabbed the finger held out to her, and smiled brightly Mistress Ball’s cooing. Of course, she didn’t giggle.

                “John and I have just got back from Rhode Island.” Mistress Ball chatted. “His venture did not pan out as hoped.” She practically whispered the information.

                Mary wondered at Mistress Ball’s frankness. They hadn’t been close when the Ball’s had left two years ago. Her forced smile fell when she decided Mistress Ball shared her misfortune because the woman believed Mary shared hers.

                “It is busy” Mistress Ball misinterpreted the look on Mary’s face. “But the clerks act quickly, and Master Winthrop is excellent at selecting the perfect cloth on the first try.”

                “Or second.” A man with a friendly grin, and salt and pepper hair, stepped from where he’d been talking with Goody Sewell.

                “Master Winthrop! If I had known you were behind me, I’d not have spoken so carelessly.”

                “Compliments are never careless.”

                “Mistress Greenwood, allow me to introduce you to my acquaintance from Rhode Island, Master Winthrop.” Mistress Ball stepped back so Master Winthrop could step forward.

                Whatever pleasantries Mary or the man intended to exchange were drowned by Silence’s desperate wail.

                Mary nearly dropped her daughter in shock. She caught Silence with her thigh, and lifted her squalling child to her bosom. Tears flooded Mary’s eyes, but she laughed with glee. Master Winthrop looked at her as if she were possessed. Nearby patrons turned to stare at the scene.

                “Sorry.” She gasped. “I must –“ She left without formally excusing herself, but she didn’t care. Mary couldn’t stay. She had to find John before Silence stopped.


End file.
